


Homecoming

by allonsys_girl



Series: Scenes from Baker Street [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Divorce, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, Post HLV, Post S3, Sad John, Sherlock Being an Idiot, Sherlock Series 3 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-05
Updated: 2014-02-05
Packaged: 2018-01-11 06:49:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1169957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allonsys_girl/pseuds/allonsys_girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John begin to restore what they once had, after John leaves Mary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Homecoming

“She’s not. She’s not mine.” John’s teeth dart out over his lip, catching it just enough to hurt. Deep breath in, cheeks sucked in between rows of teeth. He’s trying desperately to remain calm.

“No, John. She isn’t.” Mary’s eyes looking up at John are cold and clear, and he knows she’s telling the truth. For once. For once, she’s actually telling the truth, and of course it has to be the most vile thing she could say. 

John huffs a bitter laugh through his nose. “Right. Right then. Of course not. So whose is she?”

Mary is sitting at the kitchen table, her belly swollen and round, hands wrapped around a cup of steaming tea with cream and sugar. It’s always sugar with her, sugar in everything, and sweets, she loves pastries and buns and biscuits. John always feels its making up for something bitter inside her. Every time she scoops sugar into her tea cup, that’s what he envisions. A mound of sugar covering up something dirty and wrong, trying to make it palatable.

But it never quite can. 

She makes a sliding motion with her eyes, dismissive. “A colleague. You don’t know him.”

“Okay, right. So, what you’re telling me right now. What you are FUCKING telling me right now, is that you cheated on me, with what, another contract killer, and that this baby isn’t mine.” John’s head feels like it’s filling with noise, buzzing, the drone of fifty airplanes. His eyes feel swollen, like they could burst. His skull isn’t big enough to contain the anger that’s building. 

“Yes.” Mary is cool as ice. Picks up her tea, sips it. Regards John from under her eyelashes with a detached calm. 

John’s fist slams into the kitchen counter, hard enough to split open two knuckles and leave a smear of blood across the tile. He can hardly get control of his breathing enough to speak. “After...after what I’ve already forgiven you for. The vile things you’ve done. What you did...what you did to...Sherlock...and now this. Was it all an act? What was that at Christmas, when you were crying? What was that fucking shit, Mary?”

“I was, I don’t know, caught up in the moment, I suppose. I meant it at the time.” She yawns, delicately, her hand tapping her lips. She picks up a magazine lying on the table and flips through it, like they’re having the most casual conversation in the world. 

John is biting the inside of his lip bloody. His whole body shaking with rage, shivers rolling over him as he tries to contain it. “Well, I fucking didn’t. Okay. I tried, I really FUCKING tried to. I was trying to do the right thing. I was trying to make this work. FOR HER!” He points a shaking finger at Mary’s belly. “But fuck all, Mary. Fuck all if this baby isn’t even mine. I can’t...I have nothing left for you. Nothing.’

“That’s understandable.” She’s still maddeningly sipping her tea. Picks up a biscuit and takes a dainty nibble. 

And in that moment, watching her chew like some little fucking bird, John realizes he can’t even stand the sight of her anymore. Things were cracking long before this moment, before this argument. He’d never truly been able to forgive Mary for shooting Sherlock, regardless of how much Sherlock had pushed him to do so. It was absurd, ridiculous, to forgive someone for shooting your best friend point blank in the chest. He didn’t want to, couldn’t stand the thought of her. But Sherlock insisted, he cajoled, he justified and excused, and like always, John eventually did what Sherlock wanted him to do, and he reluctantly went back. 

He told her it didn’t matter. That this was a new start. He chewed his cheek raw even as he told her he wanted it to work, and tried to make it true.

But there’d been a deep divide. There was no way to have the relationship they’d had before. He couldn’t erase what he knew about her. And he couldn’t erase the image of the scar on Sherlock’s chest, raw and pink and cruel, that she had put there. Sherlock had done his best to never let John see, but it was inevitable with John back at Baker Street in the months he couldn’t bear to see Mary, that at some point, he’d see Sherlock bare chested. 

It happened in the kitchen, very early one rainy morning. Sherlock was in his dressing gown and his pyjama pants, making a cup of tea. John had gotten up earlier than usual, and he walked into the kitchen to see Sherlock standing there, dressing gown hanging open. The scar drew John’s eyes to it like a car wreck. Soft, pink, new skin, ridged by a knotty ring of white scar tissue. He had felt his eyes filling up, thinking of why that was there. Of who had put it there. He felt like he couldn’t breathe, an apology for ever having brought this horrible woman into their lives jammed in his throat.

He’d had to touch it. Without a word, he’d crossed the kitchen, closed his eyes, and put two fingers to it. A hard shuddering breath had passed through him, nausea rising in his throat, feeling under his fingertips the place that Mary had put a bullet in his best friend. He felt Sherlock’s hand closing over his own, and when he opened his eyes, their noses were almost touching. They stood there, breathing each other’s breath, silent tears pooling in John’s eyes, until he could bear it no longer, and with a cringing apology, he had fled to his room, which was empty, sunk to the bare floor, and wept and wept. 

His months back with Mary had been filled with chit chat and uncomfortable silences. They slept in the same bed, but John was so rolled to the edge that he barely stayed on. There was no cuddling, no affection. Most nights before falling asleep, he texted back and forth with Sherlock for an hour, sometimes passing out with his phone still clutched in his hand. Mary made snide remarks about “your boyfriend”, and John had to often leave the house and take a walk in order to hold back his rage at the sheer audacity she had to mock Sherlock after she’d nearly killed him. 

And now this. He’d been trying so hard, trying to hold on to something, anything, for this baby. And now she wasn’t even his. He just couldn’t take one more second in this house with this woman. The very air felt poisonous. 

“Sod this. I am leaving right fucking now, and I am never coming back.” John pivots on his heel, still quaking with anger. 

“Going to Baker Street?” Mary asks as casually as if they were a completely normal couple, having a chat about visiting a friend. 

“Not that it’s any of your fucking business, but yes. Of course I am.” John breathes out hard through his nose, closes his eyes to try and regain some kind of composure.

“Of course you are.” Mary gets up and gently puts her tea cup in the sink. She picks up her magazine and sweeps out of the kitchen. She stops in front of John and looks him up and down. “I’m going to bed soon. Pack quickly.”

There is a string of hateful things ready to burst off of the end of John’s tongue, but he bites, literally bites, them back. Digging into the tip of his tongue with his teeth, until he can taste blood. Why does half his life consist of trying to keep himself from raging at someone? It’s exhausting.

He does pack quickly, throwing as many clothes and toiletries as he can possibly manage into his old army duffel and a suitcase. He grabs his box of memorabilia from under the bed, filled with war memories and trinkets from cases with Sherlock, a few childhood remembrances. Everything else can wait. He has got to get out of this house. 

Mary is lying on the sofa, and arm draped over her belly, reading. She’s infuriatingly calm. Her head doesn’t even flick in John’s direction as he passes through the living room, hauling his life over his shoulders.

“Goodbye, John. I expect you’ll want to come back for your books and things.” 

“Yeah. I will. I’m keeping the key until I get all my things.” His voice is harsh and angry. He wishes he could be calmer, but it’s just not in his nature to not get angry. It’s why he was a good soldier. You can feel the anger, just control it. And he is controlling it right now, controlling it to the degree his internal organs feel like they’re shaking from the effort.

“That’s fine. Taking the car?” Her voice is so smooth, it makes John’s lip twitch. 

“No. Tube. Keep the fucking car. I don’t even like to drive.” And he wrenches the front door open, struggles through, catching bags on the doorframe, and finally, he’s out. 

He turns around with the intention of slamming the door shut, but Mary is closing it quietly, a smile on her face. John’s eyelid is jumping. She is the most false person he has ever met. Everything about her is lies and facade. The sweet suburban mother with the quiet voice, always with a cuppa ready. That person doesn’t even really exist, does she? 

John’s at the end of the street before he fishes his phones from his jeans and texts Sherlock. 

I’ve left her. The baby isn’t mine.  
I just can’t do this anymore, Sherlock. JW

There’s barely a beat before Sherlock texts back.

I’m so sorry, John.  
Come home. SH

Come home. John blinks at the screen for a moment, then a sense of relief so strong it makes his knees feel weak washes over him. Home, to Baker Street. With Sherlock. 

He feels he can’t possibly get there soon enough. Where everything is familiar and right and when Sherlock pisses him off, he doesn’t have to worry about being stabbed in his sleep. It feels like years since he’s lived at Baker Street, though it’s actually been just short than two months. This is going to be the longest tube ride of his life. 

***

John drops his bags on the sidewalk to dig his keys out of his jacket pocket, but the scruffy black door to 221 swings open before he can. He looks up into the sympathetic face of Mrs. Hudson. She holds her arms out to him, and he actually allows her to enfold him in them. 

“Sherlock told me you were coming home, John. I’m so sorry ‘bout the baby.” She kisses his cheek and ushers him in. “I never did like Mary, though, dear, now that I can say it. She always seemed...off...somehow.”

“Yes, well. I don’t really want to discuss it, Mrs. Hudson.” John drags his bags in behind him and shuts the front door, taking in the familiar shabby entrance hall, and the smell of something roasty and good cooking in Mrs. Hudson’s flat. “I appreciate it...I just...really…”

“Of course not, of course not, dear. I’m making dinner for you boys, I’ll bring it up later. Knock first, shall I?” She gives John a knowing wink.

“No. No reason to knock first.” John shakes his head, laughing. Nothing changes here. “But thank you for dinner. I’m going to go up and get settled.”

“Yes, dear. Sherlock’s waiting for you.” She lays a hand on his arm, an unusual slow smile lighting her face, a bit of her usual flustery demeanor gone. “It is so good to have you home, John.”

It’s a light in his chest. He breathes in deep, and when he lets it out, there’s a warmth like wine flowing through him. “It’s good to BE home, Mrs. Hudson. It truly is.”

She pats him on the arm one last time, and retreats into her own flat. John stands there for a moment, looking up the steps, a wash of memories flooding over him. Because this isn’t like last time he was here, where it was temporary, and he slept on the cold leather sofa every night. When Sherlock was trying to convince him to go back to Mary. 

This is a homecoming.

He takes the stairs two at a time, because Sherlock always does, even with the heavy, clunky bags over his shoulders. The door is open, and he can see the flickering of the telly in the hallway. There’s a chemically smell hovering around, which spurs in him a deep burst of laughter. This is right. This is home. Mary seems a million miles, a million years, away.

“John?” Sherlock’s voice floats out into the hall, and then there’s footsteps, and Sherlock appears in the doorway. “Here. Give me a bag.”

John hands over his duffel, and follows Sherlock into the sitting room. There’s a crackling fire in the fireplace, some awful talk show on the telly, papers strewn everywhere, an old take away carton open on the floor, and no room has ever looked more inviting and perfect. John drops his bags heavily and flops in his chair, toes off his shoes and arches his feet toward the fire, eyes falling closed. 

Sherlock passes by, hesitates by the back of John’s chair. Contemplates that mussed head of golden grey hair for a moment, and then drops a hand to it, fingers sliding between the bristles. John doesn’t flinch, doesn’t move. Sherlock experimentally flexes his fingers once against John’s scalp. John allows it, his head falling back slightly more against Sherlock’s hand.

“I am so sorry, John.”

John shrugs and lets out a bitter laugh. “I’m too tired to be upset right now. I think all the bottling up of my rage earlier took a bit out of me.”

Sherlock takes his hand from his friend’s hair, sits down opposite him, and temples his hands under his nose. Considers John for a moment, his currently turquoise eyes troubled. “Not yours? I didn’t expect that.”

John lets his head roll against the chair, trying to ease some of the tension that’s been collecting at the base of his skull for the last few hours. “I really don’t want to talk about it, Sherlock. Not now.”

“Alright, John. Of course. What would you like to talk about?” Sherlock sits back, stretching his long legs out toward John’s chair.

“Nothing. I just want to sit here, and not think about anything, or talk about anything. I just want to look at this fire and forget everything.” John stretches his own legs out, and their feet bump. John retracts a little. “Sorry.”

Sherlock smiles, his eyes dancing in the firelight. “I don’t mind. I’m glad you’re home.”

“Me too.” John leans his head back, sinks into his chair. The worn fabric under his palms, that one spring that always pokes the small of his back...he knows every inch of this chair. Every inch of this flat, every creaking board, how to jiggle the sticky window sash just right, exactly how long the hot water lasts in the shower. It’s overwhelmingly relieving to be back. And know it’s for good.

They sit quietly, listening to the fire crackling and the muffled talking of the people on the telly, and when their feet bump together again, neither man bothers moving them.

They’re still sitting that way when Mrs. Hudson comes up with a platter full of sliced meat, potatoes, and carrots. “Yoo hoo! I made you boys some dinner.”

John pops immediately out of his chair to take the platter from her. “Ta, Mrs. Hudson, this looks fantastic.”

John’s shuffling around in the kitchen, getting plates and utensils, as Sherlock languidly unfolds himself from his chair. “Staying to eat with us, Mrs. Hudson?”

“Oh, no, Sherlock. I’ll let you boys be to yourselves. It’s so good, seeing you back together.” She shrugs a little weepily, and moves toward the door. 

John doesn’t make his usual argument about them not ever having been together, too busy opening a tricky wine bottle, or maybe he just doesn’t mind this time. Either way, his lack of denial gives Sherlock a small warm knot in his belly. Mrs. Hudson closes the door behind her, smiling at them both, and Sherlock turns to look at John, stretched up to a high cupboard, the outline of his compact body fitting so perfectly into that space. John. Home. Finally.

John hands Sherlock a plate, and they settle into a companionable silence. This is so beautifully uncomplicated. Just eat. Sip wine. Sit by the fire, say nothing. They smile at each other occasionally, softly and carefully, Sherlock not wanting to seem too happy when John’s had yet another trauma, and John just not able to give much more at the moment. 

Finally, John sets his empty plate on the floor and stretches. Every muscle and joint aches with the weight of this day, and the months that came before it. He can’t stay conscious much longer. “Well, Sherlock. I’m for bed.”

“You know me, John. I’ll be up for hours yet. You’re welcome to my bed. If I need to sleep, I’ll use the sofa.” Sherlock starts sweeping around the sitting room, gathering up their plates, dressing gown billowing. 

John’s caught by a surge of affection for him so strong it cramps his stomach a little. What this man has done for him is unfathomable. What he’s actually given up, been willing to give up. John feels he’ll never be able to repay him. “Sherlock.”

Sherlock turns from where he’s setting the dishes in the sink. The kitchen lights are off, a very soft pink light from the fireplace the only illumination on Sherlock’s face. His hair is falling soft around his face, wilting a bit at the end of a long day. John’s caught by a sudden urge to ruffle it, but he laughs at himself silently and doesn’t do it. 

“Sherlock. Thank you. For...everything. You’re really the best friend I could...ever have.” John scratches his neck, eyes on the ceiling, not able to look Sherlock in the eyes as he says this. 

“John. Of course. Don’t, don’t even thank me.” Sherlock turns back to the sink, his own anxiety over emotional conversations getting the best of him. “Regardless of the circumstances, I am...quite pleased to have you home. Baker Street is never quite complete without you in it.”

John can’t think of anything adequate to say to that. So he doesn’t try. “You really don’t mind if I use your bed? I am about to fall flat on my face.”

“No, please. I have a case to work on tonight, I won’t sleep much, if at all. It’s all yours.” They lock eyes, both smiling tight lipped, a sea of unspoken sentiments passing between them. John’s stomach is fluttering. Sherlock’s breath is caught in his lungs. Finally, John looks away. 

“Okay. Right. Well, thanks again. Good night, Sherlock.”

“Goodnight John.” Sherlock slips past him into the sitting room, and coils himself in his chair, grabs his laptop and balances it precariously on his bony knees. John lingers in the kitchen doorway for a moment, drinking in the sight of Sherlock in his chair, fingers already flying over the keys, his face alight with whatever complexities are spinning through his mind.

I almost lost him twice, repeats in John’s head over and over. And once at the hands of my wife. He closes his eyes at the memory of running his fingers over that scar. Of Sherlock’s warm skin beneath his fingertips, their noses almost touching, the feeling of Sherlock’s breath moist on John’s lips. 

“Go to bed, John.” Sherlock flicks his eyes up from the screen, smile playing on his lips, not quite committed to it. 

“Yeah. Yeah. You’re right.” John shakes his head, breaking the spell of that memory. He raises a hand at him, and retreats into Sherlock’s bedroom. 

Once he flips the light switch on, John realizes it may be harder to sleep in Sherlock’s bed than he thought it would be. He feels like he’s doing something forbidden, in Sherlock’s room, about to take off his clothes and climb into the sheets that Sherlock slept in. It feels far too intimate. But he’s embarrassed to go out and say that to Sherlock, and he can’t think of any other good excuse to not sleep there. 

He takes off nothing but his jeans, because too much bare skin just feels like, well, too much, and slips between the cool sheets. The pillow smells like Sherlock’s shampoo, something rich and expensive and a bit chocolatey. It’s an infinitely comforting smell. It says home, and take away spread across the desk, hot tea by the fireplace, crap telly, laughter and inside jokes and cab rides at midnight. John breathes it in, and it’s *too* comforting, it opens up something soft inside him, and he’s thinking suddenly of Mary and the baby that isn’t his. 

All the time he spent trying to forgive what she’d done, what she was. All the time he spent forcing himself to love that child, because it was part of him. Except it isn’t. And everything he’s ever tried to do in his life has just crumbled. He’s not a soldier, barely a doctor, no longer a husband, and won’t be a father. He’s built nothing, and he’s almost forty years old. Before he can stop himself, there are hot tears sliding off his nose, soaking into Sherlock’s pillow. 

He stuffs his hand in his mouth, biting down hard on the soft part behind his thumb. Sherlock will not hear him sobbing into his fucking pillow. 

John lays there, shoulders shaking, stomach heaving, until he feels completely wrung out. That’s it. Done. No tears anymore. Not for her. Not for the baby. Though, he can’t pretend not to be gutted about that. But he will not cry about it again.

This, this here at Baker Street. This with Sherlock. This is the one thing he’s done right. The only thing that has made him feel strong, and capable, and intelligent and useful, since he was in the army. 

And of course, Sherlock himself. Ridiculous, mercurial, infuriating...but somehow, he’s become the one constant in John’s life. And Christ, who would have ever thought that? That he could be a constant in anyone’s life. Yet, he’s always there, and has spent the last year desperately trying to make up for when he wasn’t, when he left. It hasn’t been lost on John, what Sherlock’s been doing. Apologizing in every way possible, trying to give John the life they both thought he wanted. Except nothing works right in John’s life, nothing is ever what it’s supposed to be. And the life he thought he wanted was unsatisfying and dull long before Mary’s treachery was laid bare. And afterwards, well, he still has a lot of questions for Sherlock about why on earth he’d pushed him back to Mary. 

Tired of thinking, John eventually closes his eyes and allows himself to fall into a troubled sleep.

Hours later, Sherlock comes and stands at the door, a sad smile lighting his tired face. John’s on his back, mouth slightly open, one muscular arm flung out across the empty side of the bed. It would be so easy, so easy to slip in beside him, and lay his head on John’s arm, drape an arm over his stomach. Sherlock breathes out heavily. But that will never happen. It just won’t. Be happy with what you have, Sherlock, he says to himself. John’s home. Just be happy with that.

Sherlock pulls the door closed, withdraws to the sitting room. Curled on the sofa, he tries to close his eyes, but every time he does, all he can see is John’s spiky hair against the white of his pillow. He curls in a tighter ball, trying to squeeze every last ounce of this out of him. I let him go. I let him go a year ago. It’s impossible.

When Sherlock finally does drift off, John’s name is on his lips.


End file.
